HOGS #5: TARGET SADDAM (Jim DeFelice’s HOGS First Gulf War series) (17 page)

Skull
checked his watch. They had a half-hour to go.

Waiting
sucked.

Wong
had a pair of fancy binoculars that let him see heat sources, basically
hand-held IR. Still, finding the kid was going to be like finding a needle in a
haystack. The search area was more than a mile from the point where the two
Delta boys were going to watch the highway for Saddam or Strawman, as everyone
on the mission now referred to him.

Boys.
Kid. Dixon was twenty-three. Old enough to fly a Hog well enough to nail a
helicopter on the first day of the air war, no mean feat.

But
still a kid.

Skull
had nailed three MiGs and hit the silk once by the time he was twenty-three.
He’d seen two of his close friends go down, never to come back.

Had
his commanders thought of him the same way?

“Vulture
Three, Vulture Three,” said a distant voice in the faint crackle of
Knowlington’s radio.

At
first he thought it was a transmission from a flight overriding their
frequency. Then Skull realized it was a distress call on Guard, the emergency
band.

“Vulture
Three,” said the voice again. Static crashed over it like an ocean wave.

Was
he identifying himself or talking to another airplane?

“Any
allied airplane, please respond,” said the voice as the channel cleared.
“Vulture Three, requesting assistance from any allied plane.”

“Vulture
Three, this is Devil leader. What is your location?” answered Skull.

The
response was garbled, but Knowlington heard coordinates approximately ten miles
directly west of their position. His head turned that way, as if he might catch
a glimpse of the stricken plane.

There
were no other allied planes in the area. Detouring his orbit would add a little
more than a minute to his response time back to the ground team.

“A-Bomb,
you catch that?”

“Catch
what?”

“The
transmission on Guard,” said Knowlington.

“Negative.”

“Not
at all?”

“Nothing
but static.”

“Hang
with me,” he told his wingman. “We’re going west. Come to 255 on my signal.”

“On
your back,” said A-Bomb.

Skull
tried hailing Vulture Three again before telling Wolf what was up. The
controller acknowledged, volunteering to alert the AWACS control plane in the
area and hurry up the two Devil flight Hogs that were tanking.

It
was only after he snapped the mike off and found his new course that Skull
realized Vulture Three was the call sign of one of the buddies he’d lost in
Vietnam.

VULTURE
DEATH

IRAQ

27 JANUARY 1991

2030

Wong
thumbed the
contrast wheel at the top left of the AN/PAS-7 thermal viewer, dulling the glow
of the approaching vehicle’s engine. It was more than a mile away, just turning
north from the dogleg that would finally bring it into view.

There
were two people in the front seat of the sedan. From his vantage twenty yards
from the highway it was difficult to tell whether the men were soldiers, though
that seemed obvious— the car was following a military transport, and besides,
who else would be driving at night in Iraq? He could draw no other conclusions,
however; a civilian vehicle might be part of Saddam’s advance party or it might
not.

“Truck
a problem?” asked Salt, lying next to him.

“Negative,”
said Wong. “The Zil-130 6x6 is empty except for its driver. The sedan has two
passengers, neither of whom would appear to be our target.”

Salt
hastily set down the M82A1 Light Fifty sniper rifle. The long-barreled heavy
rifle fired the same cartridges as the Browning fifty caliber machine-gun;
equipped with armor-piercing shells, it could get through an armored car at
roughly 1,000 yards. Salt sighted toward a slight bend that brought the road
roughly three hundred and fifty yards away from their position.

“What
kind of car?” Salt asked.

“I
am not acquainted with the model.”

“You
don’t know what kind of car it is?” asked Davis, hunkered on the other side.

“I
am an expert on weapons, not automobiles,” said Wong.

“You
sure it ain’t a Mercedes?”

“It
is not a Mercedes, nor a station wagon,” said Wong. “Please keep your voice
down.”

“It’s
a piece of shit Jap car,” Salt told the other sergeant as it came in view of
the starscope on his Barrett sniper rifle. “I could nail it.”

“The
provenance of the sedan is irrelevant,” said Wong. “They are not our target
vehicles. Saddam would not be traveling alone, and in any event, he is not due
until midnight.”

“Nothin’
says he can’t be fuckin’ early,” said Salt.

The
two vehicles continued up the highway toward Kajuk. Wong scanned behind them to
make sure they were alone, then turned the infra-red viewer northwards,
scanning past the intersection with the main highway, then up the road towards
the nubby hill that guarded the turnoff to Kajuk. A T-72 tank sat in a shallow
depression just to the west of the intersection; there were at least a
half-dozen soldiers scattered there. Wong made out a small observation post on
the nearby hill manned by two men. A second post, this with three or four
soldiers, a Jeep-like vehicle and an armored car or personnel carrier, sat in
the middle of the road at the very western edge of the hill, commanding a curve
in the highway.

The
post on the hill presented them with an immediate problem. If the soldiers
there were equipped with the proper night vision equipment mining the road
would be difficult. Still, doing so was important— if the bombers were late or
there was confusion about the target, cratering the roadway would increase the
chances of killing Saddam.

 Of
the two northern points they had selected as candidates, one had no cover at
all; the gully which made it an attractive location for the explosives was
directly exposed to the observation post. The backup candidate had a few rocks
scattered around it and was further away; it seemed the better choice.

Wong
watched the truck and the sedan pass the spot. If the highway were blocked
there the rocks would make it difficult to pass but not impossible.

At
most, it would slow the convoy down by a minute as they regrouped, then treaded
their way off the road.

Blow
up the other spot, however, and the vehicles would have to backtrack a good
distance. They would be easy targets even for Salt with his sniper weapon.

The
truck and the sedan continued northward, passing parallel to their position and
heading for the T-intersection with the main highway. The charred remains of a
Scud launcher and some anti-aircraft weapons littered a bulldozed area at the
side of a small rise a quarter-mile or so to the southeast of the intersection;
Captains Glenon and O’Rourke, with some help from a group of F-16s, had blown
them up the previous evening. The scarred skeletons of the support vehicles sat
in the dim light, ghosts jeering from the sideline.

The
oversized T-underpass at the intersection itself had been obliterated during
the attack, but the Iraqis had bulldozed a detour at first light. It took the
vehicles a few moments to negotiate it, bouncing along the ruts before
regaining the highway and continuing toward the tank checkpoint.

Wong
swung his view back to the hill. Dixon had been near the base at the far side,
opposite the area where the observation post was. Wong readjusted the contrast
on his viewer, panning the area. The AN/PAS-7 thermal viewer was an excellent
device, remarkably rugged and, at least as night viewers went, relatively
light. It looked something like an oversized camera, with a single porthole to
squint through at the top of its large metal case. Its ability to read heat
sources was particularly useful in picking out bodies from a distance. But it
did not have the range Wong would have liked.

Two
minutes of observation by a J-STARS with its attendant armada of sensor craft
would have told him everything he needed to know. Five minutes with a properly
equipped drone, a real-time feed from a thermal-viewing satellite . . .

Wong
sighed. It was always a trial when your mission did not rate significantly high
enough to command proper resources.

“Captain,
it’s almost time for our check-in,” said Davis.

“Proceed.”

The
sergeant ducked back behind the small rise to activate the encrypted radio
unit. Wong turned his attention to the west. He would flank the hill,
approaching it in a semi-circle. It wouldn’t be necessary to walk more than a
mile. There was some low cover and the moon was not bright enough to cast a
strong shadow.

“I
can hit anything along that elbow,” said Salt.

“You
must establish your aiming point along the ravine,” Wong said, pointing further
north. “I’ll have Sergeant Davis plant the charges there.”

The
Delta trooper took his AN/PVS-7A night goggles and scanned the terrain. They
worked by magnifying available light rather than heat.

“Damn
easy to see from the post on the hill,” Salt pointed out.

“True.
But charges there will stop the convoy, especially if the detonation is keyed
when the first vehicle passes. The rest will have to back up. You will have a
much longer time to shoot. I believe also that you will command a wider area.”

“Yeah,
okay,” said Salt, nodding. “Worth the risk.” He continued scanning the area,
assessing the defenses.

“They
acknowledged. We’re set,” said Davis. He tapped his demolitions pack, a special
hard-shell suitcase that contained a remote trigger and a set of small C-4
explosive packs. “We ready to plant these?”

“Take
note of the observation post on the hill before proceeding,” said Wong,
pointing it out. Salt gave Davis his viewer. “An infra-red viewer may spot you
on the roadway. Move along that ravine side to limit your exposure, and slide
your charges out along the road.”

“More
like a ditch than a ravine,” said Salt. “I thought you said they wouldn’t have
night equipment.”

“The
possibility that they do is diminishingly low,” said Wong. “But it cannot be
ruled out. We are therefore better safe than sorry.”

“Davis
is better safe than sorry.”

“Yeah.”
Davis handed back the viewer and took his demo pack. “Wish me luck.”

Salt
grabbed his friend’s arm. “What about that spot there, Captain?” he said,
pointing about a quarter of a mile further south than the bend he’d targeted
before. “The drop off on that north side is immense. That would make them come
this way, if they could get through the rocks, and I’d have a good angle on
them.”

Wong
studied the spot.

“Excellent
choice,” he told the sergeant. “But in that case we will have to move further
south with the designator.”

“Fuckin’
easy,” said Salt.

“Looks
good to me,” said Davis, examining the area with his NOD. “Take us fifteen
minutes.”

“Take
your time,” Wong told him.

“We
can set up the sniper rifle behind that little slope up there,” said Salt,
pointing to a spot about a quarter of a mile from the road. He patted the metal
stock of the gun. “Easy shot.”

“Yes.
I will meet you there,” said Wong. He turned back to scan the area to the west.

“You’re
not coming with us?” asked Davis.

“No,”
Wong told him. “In the interval, I will am going to scout the hill to our
north.”

“What?”
said Salt.

“It
has to do with the contingency of our mission that I referred to earlier.”

“No
fuckin’ offense, Captain,” said Salt, “but could you just talk fuckin’
English.”

“He’s
saying this is the need-to-know shit,” said Davis.

“Precisely,”
said Wong.

“What
the hell are we supposed to do if you don’t come back?”

“You
are to carry on with your mission. Be sure to identify the vehicle for the
bomber before you fire. Exit precisely as planned if I’m not here.”

“We’re
not fucking leaving you,” said Salt.

“Hey,
Captain. Seriously, what’s the story here?” said Davis. “We’re about two
hundred miles deep in Iraq. You got to trust us.”

“I
do trust you,” said Wong. “I trust you implicitly. That is irrelevant.”

“Fuck,”
said Salt.

“Carry
on with your mission. You should have approximately three hours before Strawman
arrives.”

“If
he arrives,” said Davis.

“I
believe he shall.”